In Nathan Leopold's Own
Words

Nathan Leopold, in 1958, upon his release from prison.

Leopold's Motive:

My motive, so far as I can be said to have had one, was to
please
Dick.
Just that--incredible as it sounds. I thought so much of the guy that I
was willing to do anything--even commit murder--if he wanted it bad
enough.
And he wanted to do this--very badly indeed. For the commission of the
crime itself, I had no enthusiasm. Instead, I had a feeling of deep
repugnance.
(Leopold, Life Plus Ninety-Nine Years)

It was just an experiment. It is as easy for us to justify as
an
entomologist
in impaling a beetle on a pin. (Chicago Tribune, 1924)

Thoughts After the Murder:

"Well," I said to myself, "it's over. There's no turning back
now.
How
on earth could I ever have got involved in this thing? It was
horrible--more
horrible even than I figured it was going to be. But that's behind me
now.
Somehow I never believed that it would happen--that we'd actually go
through
with it. "But it's done. "And now, at least, there aren't any decisions
to make. I'll be able to put all my thought on not making any slips--on
staying one jump ahead of the police. But that's nonsense! Nobody's
ever
going to suspect me. "I wish it weren't over with--that there were
still
time to change my mind. But what's the use of wishing things that are
impossible?
The thing I've got to do now is be careful to do all the ordinary,
normal
things just as I've always done them. I'll stop at a drugstore and call
Connie to confirm our date for tomorrow night." (Leopold, Life
Plus Ninety-Nine Years)

On Loeb:

You just couldn't figure the fellow out. Those quick
alternations of
mood, those sudden changes of mind. But then that was nothing compared
to the real, fundamental contradiction in his character. Everybody went
for the guy--and rightly so. There wasn't a sunnier, pleasanter, more
likable
fellow in the world. Why, I thought more of Dick than of all the rest
of
my friends put together. His charm was magnetic--maybe mesmeric is the
better word. He could charm anybody he had a mind to. Lots of people
who
thought the world of him would be surprised to know his real thoughts
about
them. He looked down on nearly everybody. But they never knew it. And
he
was at home with everybody. College presidents or hobos, it was all the
same to Dick. He fitted in with everybody, became instantly a charter
member
of any group. He blended with his environment as some moths and
butterflies
do. And all this he did so effortlessly. He seemed to have the inborn
knack
of making friends, of winning everyone's affection. I'd try
deliberately
to copy his mannerisms, to be consciously charming. I couldn't come
close.
More often than not I'd just alienate people, more so than if I hadn't
made a conscious effort. But Dick didn't have to try. He just seemed
able
to push an imaginary button and turn on the charm. And he could be
generous
to a fault. But then there was that other side to him. In the crime,
for
instance, he didn't have a single scruple of any kind. He wasn't
immoral;
he was just plan amoral--unmoral, that is. Right and wrong didn't
exist.
He'd do anything--anything. And it was all a game to him. He reminded
me
of an eight-year-old all wrapped up in a game of cops and robbers.
Dick,
with his brilliant mind, with his sophistication! (Leopold,
Life Plus Ninety-Nine Years)

On Darrow:

I grew to know Clarence Darrow well in those three
emotion-laden
months.
I sat beside him daily in that sweltering courtroom charged with the
heat
of summer, charged perhaps even more with the heat of men's passions. I
was privileged to see him in action in what were perhaps the most
trying
hours of his long and illustrious career. Yet how can I hope to
describe
his many-faceted character? Mr. Darrow was sixty-seven--what the world
calls an old man. But he did not give the impression of age. Rather,
there
was about his craggy face, his unruly iron-gray hair, and his
loose-jointed,
shambling figure a certain air of timelessness. You simply did not
think
of his age. Instead you knew from his deeply lined face that he had
lived--richly
and deeply. Mr. Darrow was many things--philosopher, humanitarian,
lawyer,
defender of the rights of the underdog--so many things that it is hard
to decide which aspect of his character made the deepest impression. To
me, at least, Mr. Darrow's fundamental characteristic was his
deep-seated,
all-embracing kindliness. You couldn't look at the man without being
struck
almost instantly by this keynote of his character. Clarence Darrow was
far from being sure that life, under the happiest circumstances, is
worth
living; he knew sorrow and trouble intimately; his instantaneous
reaction
toward people--especially people in trouble--was the welling forth of
that
tremendous, instinctive kindliness and sympathy. It was so genuine, so
immediate, so unforced. And it embraced the whole world. Or, at least,
nearly the whole world. The only things Mr. Darrow hated were what he
considered
cruelty, narrow-mindedness, or obstinate stupidity. Against these he
fought
with every weapon he could lay a hand to. And unfortunate was the
individual
who, in Mr. Darrow's opinion, stood for any of those qualities. His
merciless
scorn, his blistering sarcasm, his rapier-like thrusts of irony must
have
made many an opponent squirm.... He was a deep and original thinker.
Although
he was widely read and possessed of an amazing store of the world's
knowledge,
the most striking characteristic of his thought was its originality. In
many fields he was a generation ahead of his times. He hated
superficiality;
he refused to conform for conformity's sake. One result was that he
often
espoused unpopular causes. It may be said of him that he was one of the
best-hated as well as one of the best-loved men of his day . Clarence
Darrow
came to visit me a few months before his death. Physically, he had
grown
feeble; the mark of death was on his face. But age and illness had not
dimmed that piercing inner light. His wisdom, his kindliness, his
understanding
love of his fellow man shone out from under the wrappings of his flesh
as brilliantly on this last day I saw him as it had on the first.
(Leopold, Life Plus Ninety-Nine Years)

Reaction to Sentence:

Actually, neither Dick nor I reacted very strongly . There was
some
slight feeling of relief, but relief from the tension of uncertainty
rather
than from any particular dread of the extreme penalty. As to sober
thought
of the future, there was none. I had no conception of what prison would
be like, nor did I make any effort to think about it.
(Leopold,
Life Plus Ninety-Nine Years)

Hanging:

It had been my own personal preference at the outset to make
no
attempt
to avoid the extreme penalty. I had desired to plead not guilty and, by
refraining from offering any defense whatsoever, positively to court
execution.
My reasons for this view were twofold: first, I believed, and evidently
Judge Caverly agreed, that speedy execution of the death penalty would
be much easier for us defendants than the slow, day-by-day torture of
spending
the rest of our lives in prison. Second, I felt that the pain to our
families
and the humiliation and shame they must suffer would, in the long run,
be less if we were hanged than if we were sentenced to life
imprisonment.
The shock and the grief were enormous in either event, but I hoped that
with Dick and me removed from the scene the wound might begin slowly to
heal and the memory to become gradually less vivid and painful. So long
as we were alive and in prison I feared that we should be a festering
sore,
that we should be subjected to periodic bursts of publicity in the
newspapers,
and that the anguish we had caused our families would never be allowed
to abate. I might say that in the thirty-three years that have elapsed
I have found no reason to change my mind. (Leopold, Life
Plus Ninety-Nine Years)

Remorse:

Looking back from the vantage point of today, I cannot
understand
how
my mind worked then. For I can recall no feeling then of remorse.
Remorse
did not come until later, much later. It did not begin to develop until
I had been in prison for several years; it did not reach its full flood
for perhaps ten years. Since then, for the past quarter century,
remorse
has been my constant companion. It is never out of my mind. Sometimes
it
overwhelms me completely, to the extent that I cannot think of anything
else. (Leopold, Life Plus Ninety-Nine Years)

Sufficient Punishment:

"I've spent 32 years here. Is that sufficient punishment for
what I
did? I don't know the answer to that because I don't know how to
measure
punishment. I know that I have lost those near and dear to me while I
was
here. My father, my aunt who was a second mother to me, my brother. I
know
that I have forfeited any chance of amounting to anything. I've
forfeited
every chance for happiness. I've forfeited a chance for a family.
Whether
this is sufficient, I don't know. (Leopold, Life Plus
Ninety-Nine
Years)

Reaction to Compulsion:

The impact of Compulsion on my mental state was terrific. It
made me
physically sick--I mean that literally. More than once I had to lay the
book down and wait for the nausea to subside. Emotionally, it caused me
terrific shame and induced what I guess the doctors would call a mild
melancholia.
I felt as I suppose a man would feel if he were exposed stark-naked
under
a strong spotlight before a large audience. I kept to myself as much as
possible. Every stranger I eyed with the unspoken question in my mind:
Wonder if he's read it. I hope--I know--that I am in no sense today the
same person as that horrible, vicious, conceited, "super-smart"--and
pathetically
stupid--Judd Steiner in the book. There's only one trouble. I share a
memory
with the monster; a memory, that is, covering those things that
actually
did happen. I have been taken firmly by the arms and forced to live
through,
step by step, in horrible, graphic detail, the worst three years of my
life. It has been a traumatic experience. But then, undergoing major
surgery
without benefit of an anesthetic might be expected to be painful. I can
only hope that, like the surgery, this experience, too, may involve
some
therapy. (Leopold, Life Plus Ninety-Nine Years)

On Freedom:

Merely to have my freedom restored was, in itself, the
greatest
single
thing that could have happened in my life. Nothing has ever been more
important
to me. Sometimes in prison and a number of times since my release I
have
tried to figure out at what point in time the whole business has become
worthwhile. If I had died the day after my release, obviously it would
not have been worthwhile to serve the 33 years. What about a week then?
A month? A year? By certain esoteric calculations of my own, that
wouldn't
make sense to anyone else, I came to the conclusion that on September
15,
1963, I reached the point where it all became worthwhile: that the joy
of being a free man again equalled the grief of those 33 years.
(Higdon,
The Crime of the Century)

On Helping Others:

Helping others has become my chief hobby. It's how I get my
kicks.
(Higdon, The Crime of the Century)